


Foggy Spectacles (Shipped to Your Door)

by Marcabelle



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Comedy, Dunno how tags work please help me, M/M, Out of Character, Random - Freeform, Shipping but not really, hopefully
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-02-23 13:54:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23479261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marcabelle/pseuds/Marcabelle
Summary: John, blind as a bat, finally wears his glasses to practice as per the pleads of Paul. Though, perhaps it would have been better if he kept them off. Paul thinks it’s making him see some things.
Relationships: George Harrison/Ringo Starr
Comments: 10
Kudos: 51





	Foggy Spectacles (Shipped to Your Door)

**Author's Note:**

> Woke up with this idea in my mind one morning. It was probably a lot better in my head.

John had a migraine. And it pounded like mad. 

It wasn't uncommon for him at this point, based upon the various conditions that he's happened to have placed himself in. Then again, not all of them were _intentional_ \--just present, which was unfortunate for him since Ringo suddenly found it wise to playfully drum his fingers on a nearby table every few minutes. John wanted to whine out when he heard George laugh and join along too, and John loudly did, in fact. However, his action went unnoticed, and he opted for glowering at what he thought was a pebble on the floor.

A skip of breakfast and a growing, festering anger for doing so was what pierced through John's skull, and he figured his anger was evident considering the concerned glances Paul shot at him while he talked with the manager Epstein. At least, John _hoped_ Paul was sending concerned glances. He couldn't exactly see what his face read. Paul was standing at least ten feet away from him, and John could barely see his own hand in front of his face. 

He shut his eyes, trying to find comfort in the wooden chair that he sat backwards in by burying his head in his arms. The action only made him dizzier, and he felt like he was going to throw up yesterday's meal. At this point, John was convinced that he pounded shots the night before. He felt absolutely smashed, and he almost shed tears of joy when he saw Paul's outline scamper over to him with something in his hand. John harshly squinted at the object to no avail.

"Drink," Paul's voice commanded. John realized that Paul was handing him a cup of water. "You look like death."

"'Feel like it, too," John muttered, gulping down the cool liquid in a quick motion before placing the cup at the foot of his chair. He closed his eyes again. "Do me a favor and smash your bass over my head, would'ya love?"

John could picture Paul frowning at him, and he buried his face in his hands again to hide a smile that tried to creep onto his lips. He heard Paul sigh and felt Paul's elbow brush against his leg as he bent down to grab the glass. John's mouth twitched into another smirk, and he buried his face even deeper into his arms until Paul's voice spoke again.

"Is this pencil yours?" John perked up his head and stared at the greyed pencil that Paul had suddenly shoved into his face.

"So that's what that was. I thought it was a rock."

Paul seemed to nearly drop the pencil in confusion, though John might have been overexaggerating the action. "A rock? This looks nothin' like it."

"I'm aware of that," John said blankly. " _Now_ , anyway."

John knew that Paul was aware of his sight problem, but John also knew that Paul was a bit clueless and dense at times. Not that it mattered much. John, though he would hatefully admit it, had a shared IQ with a piece of wood, but he could still snarkily argue that wood had nutrients that provided a healthy amount of smarts needed for survival in a world full of said clueless and dense people. In this case, Paul was paper--plenty useful for creativity but sometimes wasted. (Wasted could be taken in as many ways as possible.)

It took a moment for Paul to process the statement before he jabbed the pencil behind his ear. "Why not just wear your glasses? It'll make you more attentive, won't it?"

"Well, not all of us can be as pretty as you, can we?" John scoffed at Paul's words, but it was still a considerable option. It wasn't a bad idea, just far from preferred.

"I'm just sayin'," the Paul-shaped blur shrugged, "you never wear 'em, so make some use out of it, yeah? No need to wear it outside if you're uncomfortable, just keep 'em on in here. S'probrably why you look so sick, anyhow."

"Can't I just get a sandwich instead? M'sure I'm just hungry." When blob-Paul shook his head, John groaned and shakily stood up and stumbled over to a faraway table in the corner of studio room, grabbing at the coat he messily threw onto it and began rummaging through the pockets. He finally found his glasses by the third pocket he checked, and he slid them onto his face.

"Can you see the world now, love?" Paul called out, still next to the chair that John was previously sitting in. John could also see that Paul was still holding the glass.

"Wow, my headache's gone," John cheered sarcastically, though he regretted the action as soon as the words left his mouth. Another wave of nausea forced him to quickly shut his eyes, but this didn't stop another quip from being said. "Has the room always been this bright?"

"Ahah, very funny," Paul murmured. John could hear Paul's footsteps draw near, and he opened his eyes. "C'mon now. We were supposed to be recording a while ago. I bet George and Ringo are already in the other room waiting."

John allowed himself to get dragged by Paul to the next room, forgetting to take his glasses off and ignoring the question of the other two's sudden disappearance.

\-----

By the time recording sessions seized, John was sure he could eat an entire village. In fact, he was quite surprised that _George_ was the one who beat him in expressing it. Then again, John was pretty sure that the youngest was always eating something whenever he had the chance, but that left no excuse for everyone to walk so damn _slowly_.

John's stomach let out a quiet rumble as the four of them made their way to the restaurant. He trailed behind Ringo and George, the former apparently having discovered the place while on a silent night out. The duo ahead were happily chatting about whatever seemed to come to mind. John didn't really pay them any attention. If they weren't talking about the restaurant, he had no need to care. Paul remained next to him, making sure that he didn't topple over from sudden starvation and dehydration. (John refused any more water during recording, and he was very certain that the one glass that Paul forced him to drink was not enough.)

At this point, John was beginning to believe that his increasing headache was making him hallucinate. The floor looked like it was bending, and the nonexistent wind chimed like a dog whistle that was just a frequency too low. He'd long forgotten that he had his glasses on--not that he minded, for seeing was quite necessary at the moment--and he even took notice that Paul still had the grey pencil behind his ear. John was highly tempted to flick it away, but a split second of seeing double prompted him not to.

"You alright?" Paul whispered, poking John's shoulder.

John slowly nodded in response, going back to looking straight ahead at the pair in front of him. He cautiously rubbed his eyes until they were numbly sore, and he blinked a couple of times to clear his mind's blur. 

Then he nearly did a double take.

For a moment, John was sure that Ringo's fingers had brushed against George's palm. He thought he somehow sensed longing in the action, and John was even sure that they stayed that way for more than a mere second. He blinked again, and the pair were back to talking about nonsense, hands nowhere close to the other's.

John let out a sigh. How curious and bored would you have to be to need something as trivial as that to distract you? Hands happen to touch all the time, so why bother with it?

Before his train of thought could continue, Ringo announced their arrival at the eatery, and with a content smile, John scampered in as quickly as possible.

The four of them were seated at a booth, and this time, John couldn't help but suddenly notice how swiftly Ringo moved in order to sit next to George. This action was subtle, too, but John, surprisingly, kept his mouth shut, neglecting to joke or comment on it. He was too concerned with getting food into his stomach to show any care, but the words on the menu seemed to blur as an inquisitive need filled his head. He eventually settled for picking the dish he figured would be the biggest, and he slapped his menu down with grand force. This earned a glare from Paul who was still occupied with deciding what to eat, and John stuck out his tongue in response.

John slightly swung his legs underneath the table, taking a sip of the complementary water and glancing over at the oldest and youngest every so often while waiting for the server to arrive. They weren't doing much, still talking like they had before, and he eventually tuned them out again, looking over to the wall to see the posters that were a lot more entertaining now that he could actually read them. Most of the messages were sappy, telling the restaurant's patrons to have a nice day or to believe in their decisions--mainly on their decision to come back. In truth, John was more entertained by the pictures of women leaning on cars.

Then, in the corner of his eye, he saw something for a third time.

George casually scooted over to Ringo until their shoulders touched, forcing John to stifle a laugh when he took in their height difference. He nearly choked on his water when he saw a slight redness etch itself onto Ringo's cheeks as he licked his lips.

Then his jaw nearly dropped when he saw the two of them lean in...

"So, boys, what can I get for you?"

John was temporarily snapped out of his stupor, looking up at the waiter with slight disappointment. He hastily placed down his cup before he could accidently drop it. Yes, he wanted to eat. _Duh_. He was practically dying to. But to interrupt the moment that was actually unfolding before his eyes? Despicable.

The server took their orders, and George and Ringo were back to sitting on opposite ends of the booth, this time engaging in conversation with Paul included. 

John, off to the side, desperately wanted to say something, just to confirm that he wasn't the only person who saw that... almost display of affection. Now, it wasn't that it was bad. Hell, the two could have _bloody made out with each other_ , and John wouldn't have minded one bit. Of course he would've teased the two lovebirds about it, but...

God, _were_ they even lovebirds?

"What about you, John?"

John coughed and pretended to be cleaning his glasses. "What, Paul?"

"What'dya think about movin' another session to earlier in the week?"

John shrugged with indifference, placing the lenses back on his face. "Fine by me, s'long as we get to eat earlier then."

"I agree," George beamed. "So when we wait, we won't be as hungry but will be famished when it arrives."

Ringo giggled ( _Yes,_ John thought. _Giggled._ ) at the taller's statement. "Bah, you're already always famished, ain'tya?"

George opened his mouth to respond, but before anything left his mouth, the waiter placed their meals on the table. In a heartbeat, the four began to munch away at the food, barely looking up to even consider starting up another conversation. 

Halfway into eating, John peered back at Paul who seemed to be highly engaged with what John assumed to be mash potatoes, then he stared at Ringo and George again as if he were waiting for them to do something else--anything that he could bring up and comment on.

Nothing happened.

It had been a few minutes more, and John and George were already finished eating (and were also working together to decide whether or not to have dessert). Paul had headed off to the restroom while Ringo was left alone to finish the last few bites of his sandwich. George allowed his input.

"See, if we have to get anything, it has to be the lava cake," George pointed at the item on the menu. "Look'it. I might melt at how creamy it looks."

"Listen, Geo, if it'd been any other day," John began, "I still wouldn't agree with you. The correct choice is that strawberry cheesecake over there."

"You're both wrong," Ringo tsk'ed as he swallowed. "Get the cookie sundae. 'Heard it's one of the best."

"Fine by me. Lennon?"

John sunk back into his seat, far too tired in the day to formulate an argument. "Yeah, sure. Cookie sundae it is."

Satisfied, Ringo let out a triumphant "ahah!", causing the youngest to laugh at him for what seemed like the thousandth time that day.

Once his laughter subsided, George peered over at Ringo. "Hey, you've got somethin' on your face."

John watched Ringo tap the incorrect cheek. "Over here?"

"Nah, I'll get it."

Things went in slow motion. George leaned over to grab a napkin from the dispenser, and cupping Ringo's face with his hand--John just about died--, he wiped the substance off of Ringo's bottom lip, tracing his thumb over the drummer's jawline. There was no way this could possibly be an imagination, especially an imagination produced by John Lennon.

George quickly pulled away, somehow not looking as flushed as John figured he'd be. He inspected the napkin. "Looks like mustard."

Ringo, too, was far from being completely red-faced. "Oh?"

John had no idea how the two were able to, _ahem_ , touch each other so casually. He half expected them to be squeezing each other's thighs underneath the table. Honestly, he couldn't have been seeing things again, could he? John felt his headache slowly subsiding, so dizzying hallucinations simply _had_ to be out of the picture by now.

Before John could comment on what the actual Hell just happened, Paul returned, and John suddenly felt the urge to discuss what he was seeing. As soon as Paul took a seat, John snatched the pencil out of Paul's ear ("Oh, I forgot that was there!") and scribbled a message onto a procured napkin for Paul to meet him in the bathroom to talk about an emergency. He knew it was an overstatement, but he was willing for anything to convince Paul to actually get up again.

So John hurried into the bathroom, standing near the doorframe while waiting for Paul's arrival. Not even a minute passed and Paul was at John's side.

"You alright? What's eatin' ya?"

John took a deep breath, suddenly realizing that this was going to sound dumber out loud than it already did in his head. "Have you noticed anything, uh, weird lately?"

Paul raised a brow. "Weird how?"

"Well," John pushed the bridge of his glasses up his nose. "But I mean between Ringo and George. They've been...close today."

Paul frowned. "John, that doesn't really classify as an emergency."

"I know," John protested, still hoping to get enough out of his mind to receive an answer. "I just saw them be more touchy-feely, I guess. 'Never seen 'em do that before."

There was a sigh in response. "That's not really strange, y'know. We're all mates; we're all close. S'no difference. 'Sides, you've never seen much in general before today either."

"Paul, listen. They looked like they were about to jump to suck each other off about twice today. Do they do that everyday? Am I _missin'_ that every single day?"

"Um," The bassist paused before he continued his response. "No. No, I guess not. But really, that doesn't seem likely at all."

"It doesn't does it?" John pinched the tip of his nose. "I want to say somethin', but if you're not seein' what I'm seein', then they're gonna think I'm absolute mad as shite in the head."

Paul cracked a smile. "John, love, you're already mad as shite in the head."

John groaned.

"Y'know what?" Paul pushed the door open. "Whether there is something goin' on or not, you're banned from making fun of 'em. Let 'em be happy. Let 'em snog each other's faces off if they damn-well want to."

"Alright, alright," John said, following Paul out the door. "Just don't expect me to actually succeed."

\-----

It had been a week, nearing two since then. John, surprisingly, continued to wear his glasses. And, also surprisingly, he continued seeing the eager glances George and Ringo shot at each other from across the room. More than once did he see them smile at each other without reason, and he especially took notice of Ringo's immediate but playful touches on George's shoulder.

It was strange. Not only did Paul not believe him when he explicitly pointed out their _obvious affection_ , but John actually _obeyed_ Paul's request of leaving his comments to himself. Whenever the duo did something cute (and boy, did John actually think the two of them were just the most adorable pair), he had to cross his arms and hide his face in his palms, trying not squeal out like an excited child.

John never figured himself to get so delighted over something as a possible relationship between the two of his friends, but nevertheless, he whined on and on to Paul, begging to be lifted from the curse that was being unable to say anything.

"For the millionth time, there's nothing going on between them," Paul said finally, teasingly snatching John's glasses off of his face. "It's these things, ain'tit? S'making you see things."

"Yes," John attempted to make a grab for his lenses, but Paul quickly pocketed them. John couldn't see a thing. "The truth."

Paul huffed. "'The truth' said the blind man."

"Really, Paulie, you've gotta believe me," John moaned, squinting at Paul's blurred figure. "Why would I make something like this up?"

Paul blinked. "Your own enjoyment, a'course."

"I am very, truly hurt at how fast you responded."

"What else am I to say? After all, you and I both know they're into birds, John--"

"You don't know that!" John protested.

There was a sigh. Paul seemed to be doing that more and more often these days. "Stop that. This is getting out of hand. I mean, since when did you get so invested in these sorts'a things?"

John let out an immature grumble as he felt his glasses gently replacing themselves on his face. He gave Paul a quiet "thank you" before carrying on. "Well, have you at least _seen_ them? There has to be something going on. No one looks at anyone that way if they felt anything else but lust."

"If that is the case," Paul started begrudgingly. "I think you're confusing it with love." Paul began to adjust John's shirt, and John wanted to pull away but he stayed put.

"Love is blind, and I am, indeed, blind."

"Hmm, isn't that right." Paul finished fiddling with his shirt, and John rolled his eyes, pushing up his spectacles for the umpteenth time.

John continued his bombardment of complaints. "But the longing, Paul! It's _there_! The way they look at each other, the way they place their fingers so close to each other; are you saying I could make this up?"

"Well, love, I'm not saying your observance is that great either." John could see that Paul was holding back a laugh. But then Paul grimaced. "Then again, I guess you're not completely wrong either."

John's eyes widened in surprise. "So, you agree?"

"Not necessarily. It's just..." Paul struggled to find the words. "Ah, they have been a bit—how should I put this—more _comfortable_ with each other. M'pretty sure George was spoon feeding Ringo the other day."

A smile bursted on John's features. "You saw that too, huh?"

"It was, I guess, more on the side of out of the ordinary," Paul spoke slowly. "But yes, I did."

Before John could celebrate in triumph (though he wasn't sure if it was because he was reminded of such an endearing action or if it was because this confirmed his suspicions), Ringo walked into the recording room, letting out silent yawns that almost convinced John to chime in.

"Where've you been?" Paul asked. He speedily went to pick out a spec of dust from John's hair in order to distract from their "invaded privacy", and John wanted to punch Paul for constantly mothering him. But it was nice enough, he had to admit.

"I was away, nappin' in the other room," Ringo yawned again. "Didn't get much sleep last night."

"Is that so?" John felt a smirk tug in his lips. "Too busy wanking to a thought, huh?"

Ringo smiled, not at all deterred by the comment. "Speakin' of, where's George?"

Paul shrugged, but he somehow managed to stop halfway in his action. "Wait, we never mentioned—"

"Good morning," George hummed, walking in to interrupt Paul's speech. He looked just as tired as Ringo, hair styled as messily and bed-headed as it possibly could be.

 _Speak of the devil,_ John thought, his mind bubbling in confusion at Ringo's words. 

He felt Paul tug at his sleeve anxiously, but he knew why.

They were staring at each other again.

\-----

"They still don't know we're together yet, do they?"

George raised a brow as he placed a chaste kiss on Ringo's forehead. "They don't? 'Thought it was obvious by now."

"Nah," Ringo laughed, and it was music to George's ears. "They probably don't even realize how close they are with each other, too."

George nodded, thinking for a moment. "After all, they keep fixing and brushing up on each other, don't they?"

"Mhmm," Ringo pointed a finger. "'Wouldn't be surprised if some of their songs were written for each other. Unless..."

The two of them shared a knowing glance.

"They're fucking."

"Definitely."


End file.
